Carcinogen
by lattethunder
Summary: American Horror Story drabble on Tate and Violet. Forgive me for slight discrepancies in detail- I'm writing as the series goes on, and some new details may be revealed! Rated M for language and overall depressive-ness.
1. Chapter 1

Never had such a feeling been so consuming. It was not what he was accustomed to- rage, yes, fear, yes, confusion, yes, all of these things were common place. Nights driven to sleeplessness by the violence, the images that paraded about with his sanity speared on pikes like a roasted swine. Peace was found only in the strangely stable universe of his visions, his "noble wars," the calming fantasy of blood flowing about his fingers like an endless flow of wine-

Now there was only hunger. That smoldering, relentless feeling, gnawing at his chest, the unending starvation for what was so close, yet so unattainable. He couldn't dream of blood anymore. No, his dreams found skin, still soft despite the freshly forming scars on their surface, blonde hair kept with fierce teenage regularity, _Violet._

Most of the things he had told the psychiatrist were a lie; carefully injected pressure-sensitive bombs set to draw a reaction, to make the shrink's firm guard against emotion falter. But the presences of fantasies were the truth. Even simple conversations, held as though they were discourses with God, just passing her to capture the scent of a simple shampoo with a brand name stamped across the front, perhaps the hopeful wisp of perfume at her throat-

It was more than a mere physical attraction to Violet. It was an immediate, consuming, hazardous fixation with her every quality. Her little issues, little emotional plights, so endearing in how harmless they were compared to the things he had seen. How truly childish she was, thinking that she boasted an all-knowing maturity that no teenager had. She was the link to the years he had never experienced- while she was struggling against bullies, he was plotting the massacre of every acquaintance and professor who had the respect to look him in the eyes. While she bickered with her parents, he learned to inject bleach into candy bars at Halloween and never be caught while his mother fucked the neighbor in the room over.

_Stay away from him._

It was a rare moment that Violet's father actually attempted to discipline her. But what did that shithead know? He was off chasing pussy when her mother was shrinking further into a dismal depression- when Violent picked up the first razor blade and pressed it to her skin.

The normally therapeutic practice brought no comfort.

_"You're doing it wrong,"_

His voice kept repeating in her ears.

_"If you're trying to kill yourself-"_

What would have happened if she had closed the door, instead of having it wide open in a feeble attempt to get her parent's attention? Her parents were all entangled in their adult affairs- literally, in the case of her father- oblivious to the one who was suffering the most underneath their disputes. She felt like a ghost, floating in and out of empty rooms, a discontent spirit left ignored. But Tate saw her, heard her. He listened, unspeaking, as she went on about her frustrations- save for the occasional comment in agreement. And when he spoke, his words were the smartest she had ever heard. Nothing Tate said was sugar-coated; he saw every inch of filth in the world absolutely bare, bearing no false illusions about the "goodness" of humanity. And the sincerity…she instinctively drew her thin wrist to her chest.

_"I'm sorry."_

His fingers were callused with old scar, like sandpaper on her fresh, baby cuts. It was a terrifyingly welcome feeling, and her face grew hot almost instantly- Violet had to move away from his touch, in fear of her mind imploding in upon itself.

She ditched the razor blade, burning it in the middle of the trash can, amongst tissues and tampon wrappers. The single fresh slice was already coagulating, soon to be nothing more than a flaking streak of dried blood.

Her skin burned with the thought- imagining his pale fingers taking her hand again, eyes an absolute honest apology for the world's cruelty to her.

Violet sat on her bed, crossing her legs (crisscross, applesauce, as elementary school teachers always said). The skin of her legs was untouched, never met with a razor. Not yet, anyway, at least not with the intentional horizontal draw. She had cut her ankle, years ago, the first time shaving. It had bled so profusely she was almost certain death was approached, but was too afraid to seek her mother's comfort. Instead, she huddled in the bathtub, sobbing, as the water turned to a diluted pink and she finally realized that she wasn't going to bleed out.

How would his hands feel on the fresh surface of her calves, up the back of her knees, fingertips marked with old mutilations edging across her thighs?

Violet shook her head quickly, dissolving the illusion. He was dangerous. Something waited behind Tate's eyes, an edge of instability hiding behind calm irises.

Somewhere downstairs, her parents were fucking or fighting or pretending the other was invisible. If only Tate were here to alleviate the monotony, but his visits were painfully sporadic. Plucking a blue pen from her bedside table, she pressed the cold ballpoint into her bare ankle. T-A-I-N-T scrawled out in ink, as it still stood out resoundingly on the chalkboard, exactly as he had written it.

She licked a finger and smudged out the I and N, tacked an E onto the end. His name burned hungrily into her skin. Maybe he would be around tomorrow, scribbling words out onto the chalkboard as she returned from school, ready to receive a fresh wave of her hatred for her classmates, her life.

Violet flicked off the beside light, flinging herself into the pillows with an exhausted sigh. The letters were still tingling at her ankle by the time she finally drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

"Love is the old slaughterer. Love is not blind. Love is a cannibal with extremely acute vision. Love is insectile; it is always hungry…" -Stephen King, _Christine_

It seemed as though everything had been settled between them. She hadn't said a word about the _thing_ she'd seen in the darkness, when Tate had scared the crack headed bitch in the basement. Whenever the sound of the girl's screams tried to return to her memory, when she tried to recall the gnarled, gore-encrusted fingers, Violet only saw his face. It was like a loop playing in her mind. Every moment she doubted Tate, she recalled his face, emerging out of nowhere as she tried to flee the fanatic invaders- how _he_ had been there, while her father, the man who was supposed to be her great shield, her great protector, was miles away with the same woman who was causing his marriage to crumble away. If a single flicker of fear crossed her thoughts-

_"I'm sorry,"_

He hadn't touched her again- not like that, not so deliberately, that honesty that made all of her walls fall down-

"It's a nice day." Tate mused aloud.

That was impossible to deny. It was warm, but not suffocating, the sun shining with an almost irritating cheeriness, Mother Nature taking a bit of mercy on her creatures. It was weird to see him outside like this—she'd become so accustomed to spending time with him indoors. His skin seemed hungry for the warmth, hair reflecting the sunlight in shades of gold…he glanced towards her and a slight smile played on his lips. _I see you looking._

She quickly moved her gaze away, fumbling for a cigarette from the pocket of her jeans. Rambling on like a love-struck schoolgirl-how embarrassing. "Yeah,"

_What did you do to those lunatics, Tate? What did they look like when the police found their bodies-? _

_ "Get them into the basement!"_

He had come so close. If it weren't for the moment, if she weren't certain that her face was about to be held under the surface of the upstairs bathtub, it would have been impossible to resist. Just an inch closer—"Guess what's going to happen soon?"

"My dad is finally hauling me off to the loony bin?"

"No," he smirked. "But if he was, I'd visit you every day."

Wasn't that a funny image? Sitting together in her padded cell, chattering on about her parent's bullshit.

"Okay, you've got me," She stuck a cigarette between her lips, flicking her lighter in her hands. A click and the flame died. Another click- a lick of orange and warmth, then nothing.

"Shit,"

"Here," He produced a lighter from his pocket (unsurprising).

"Oh, um…" Much to her resentment, an awkward chuckle escaped her. She leaned forwards, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear. She could see the little white lines of scars across the backs of his hands-_callouses-_on his fingertips, before the flame took to the tobacco, smoke swirling in her vision.

"I'm talking about Halloween,"

"Halloween?" Violet took a drag from the cig. "Isn't that kind of…I don't know, childish?"

"You're never too old for Halloween." His smile gave her the image of razor blades in apples, children terrified so badly they went home sobbing and soaked with their own piss. Before she could produce a response, Tate suddenly lunged into the bushes, cursing under his breath. Wondering what had brought on such a sudden action, she glanced around- and saw her father approaching.

Quickly extinguishing her cigarette, she attempted to put on a relaxed expression.

"Relax. I'm not here to bust you," Ben said, oblivious to Tate.

Back pressed to the brick column, Tate angled his head towards Violet's voice as she spoke to her father. One of her legs hung off the wall, jeans pulled up slightly by the grip of brick. A smudge of blue stained her ankle, the look of skin that had been marked repetitively by ink. He could discern letters there, just barely…the starving want renewed once more, doubling. For a moment, he vehemently despised Benjamin Harmon's existence, the lying, faulty man who had the audacity to keep them apart- _I was there for her, you bastard, where were you!- _and then his mind finally processed Harmon's words. The man was desperately trying to recall something he'd lost with his daughter, to close a break in their relationship. Tate was slowly edging his way into that gap, widening the cracks, sending spider-webbing trails of lies, secrets shared. He felt no guilt for this, at least, not on Ben's part, but doubt for what it would do to Violet. It was with this that the first seeds of an idea took root in his mind, feeding upon hope in an excited frenzy. Ben's footsteps faded away.

Violet released a sigh of relief without even realizing that she had been holding it. Tate edged out from behind the hedge, an adorable sheepish expression on his face.

"He's a good dad," He said, lifting back up onto their sitting place. "He really cares. You're lucky like that."

The comment surprised her, and she wasn't entirely sure she agreed. As he lit her new cigarette- the first one was completely dusted- Violet realized he seemed in an even better mood than before.

"What's with the huge ass smile?"

He suddenly turned his body towards her, closing the space between them with a predatorial smoothness. She tensed instinctively, feeling instantaneously warmed- his knees pressed ever so slightly against her inner thighs; she felt trapped, terrified, yet fighting the want to move closer, finish the space before he could speak. He took her hands- every cut began to string, as if they were all new, bleeding raw into his skin.

"Violet, let's go somewhere."

'Somewhere' obviously meant a lot more than the typical teenage connotation. It didn't mean just anywhere- with Tate, it meant _away._

"I mean, I've got no reason to stay here- we both know this therapy thing is a load of shit. And don't you want to get away from them? Haven't you had enough of their stupidity?"

"Tate-"

It was like an offer from God; an angel might have well descended from heaven and offered a one way ticket to heaven. But she didn't believe in that sort of thing.

"They're trying, though. And my mom is pregnant-"

"Who cares?" He replied quickly, almost desperately. "Come on, Violet, just you and me. We could be really happy-"

"I can't! I mean-"

"You're such a coward," He was getting angry now, a hard edge coming to his eyes. "For all the talking you do…"

She had to calm this down- his emotions were slipping out of sensibility, to that dangerous level she had only seen glimpses of before. She pulled her hands out of his grasp, lifting them to his face- his skin was cold, despite the Californian sun, saw his eyes flicker with confusion…

It was simple, innocent. Like that long awaited moment in a teenage romance flick, where the awkward hero finally got the girl (except all of the characters were emotionally disturbed). It felt as though, with this single gesture, Violet was sealing herself in a dark room. The only person in this room was a presence that resembled that, that her senses told her was Tate, but the whisper of doubt always questioned. Violet pulled out of the kiss. Another discarded cigarette sat smoldering in the dirt.

"Not yet," She said softly, resenting the blush that was flushing her cheeks. "Someday. But not yet."

"Right," Tate replied, still looking bewildered.

Her fingers traced circles on the surface of her jeans- he was still so close, it was difficult to breathe. She wanted so badly to follow his suggestion, only able to imagine what sort of places they could disappear to- away from her family held together as weakly as a stained glass window repaired with duct tape, and the selfish inconsiderate garbage of high school.

"So, um…want to help me with my homework? It's algebra." Violet suggested, trying to break the tension in the air.

"I've never been too good at math…" He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll be happy to cheer you on from the sidelines."

Little did she know, she would find herself recanting Tate's very words to Vivian Harmon, in the single resounding threat that she would disappear if they were uprooted another time. Tate would truly know ways to disappear; for them to step off of the face of the earth, hand in hand, vanish without a whisper or a trace. Tate was pulling the few strings she had left to Vivian and Benjamin Harmon tighter and tighter, left to his passionate devices as their own concerns kept them occupied- and, in many ways, Violet wanted them to break.

Author's Note

Forgive me for typos- I was so excited to post this, I didn't read over it very well! Thanks for reading! By the way, check out my fiction stories here: .com/u/801720/


	3. Bonus Chapter 1

_Author's Note_

_This chapter is what I'd like to call a "bonus chapter"- it's irrelevant to the events of the TV show and the main storyline of this fic, but I decided to include it because it's so much fun! I hope you enjoy!_

Benjamin and Vivian Harmon had fled their lovely abode for the day, off on a house hunting search in a rare moment of cooperation- leaving behind an anything-but-honest teenager to her affairs. For Violet, a day without parental supervision typically meant some unrestricted cigarette smoking, unlimited control of the TV remote, and eating all manners of cheap, sugary food items over her mother's spotless floors. That was how it had been in the days before the move, perhaps when husband and wife shipped off to a desperate therapy session. Before Tate-

She milled about the kitchen, intentionally banging pots and pans just a decibel higher than was necessary. A cookbook, pages sticking together from old pursuits of a hopeful mother, sat on the countertop. Some women could recite such things with the upmost ease. Oh, you want a steam-broiled zesty Chilean barracuda fillet with creamed Aztec basil broccoli and crackling brown sugar banana fudge bread on the side? No problem- I have some magenta Finnish vinaigrette just for the occasion.

For the women of the Harmon family, baking cupcakes as an endeavor- and she intended to do it from scratch. It was the first semblance of a normal teenage thing she had done since they've moved- no, since the miscarriage.

And not only was she embarking on this unlikely escapade, but she was going all out, clad in a white apron covered in a Martha Stewart red pattern, like something you'd find on a dish cloth. Most notably, she completely intended on bringing Tate down with her-

"What the hell are you doing?" Tate, always as silent as a ghost, had practically materialized in the doorframe.

"We-" She said pointedly, slapping a bag of powdered sugar on the counter, "Are baking cupcakes."

Tate's facial expression suggested that he was debating several options at once: 1) Vomiting. 2) Breaking out into hysterical laughter. 3) Abandoning all premonitions about his own sanity and signing her off as a complete and total nutcase.

"…and…the apron?"

"I thought maybe it would give me good luck or something." She felt like she was trapped in a 50's dishwasher advertisement. Just add a stylish bob and painfully cheerful smile.

"Can we go back to working on your algebra homework? At least I understand that."

"Oh, shut up." She replied, trying to suppress the growing shadow of embarrassment. "My parents are out for the day and I figured we could do something fun."

"And you came up with…cooking?" He was still trying to irk her, but a slight smile at his lips suggested that Tate was relenting.

"I planned the séance for next Saturday," She answered playfully.

"Alright. I'll humor your…cupcake idea. But on one condition-" He held up a single pale index finger. "I will _not_ wear an apron."

You could only push a man's dignity so far. What a shame- she would have dug up a "Kiss the Cook" one just for him. That didn't sound too ridiculous, did it?

Tate tossed his thrift store quality jacket onto the back of a chair, still very hesitant about…baking…cupcakes.

"So, do you do this often?" He mused, looking at her skeptically as she assembled the remaining ingredients on the countertop.

"My mom and I tried it a few times when I was younger-" Flashes of her mother's face, untouched by the agonies of the world yet to come, a moment of happiness and unity long since past. Now it took a mask-wearing lunatic trying to murder them for mother and daughter to even cooperate. "But…not anymore."

She finished the statement in a hurry, burying her face behind the refrigerator door as she pretended to search for a carton of eggs. Said eggs were already sitting blatantly on the counter. "Could you set the oven to 350, please?"

"Sure…"

Violet set about preparing the ingredients into one of the ten-something bowls she had strewn about- the more the merrier. Step one- prepare eggs, milk and blah blah blah into bowl. Sounded easy enough for a five-year-old…

The egg Violet was attempting to crack shattered in her hands, syrupy whites squelching through her fingers. Most of the contents made it to the bowl, but triangles of shell floated amongst the mess like flecks of white paints.

"Hey, a little eggshell never hurt anyone," Tate commented as he looked over her shoulder. "But how about I handle the rest of them, okay?"

"Good idea," Violet turned to the single, rinsing off the sad remains of the egg.

"You know that eggs are just chicken embryos? Imagine what would happen if you got a fertilized one- you'd almost eat a chicken fetus-"

"That's disgusting!" Violet exclaimed, wiping her hands dry on the front of the apron.

"Just think about it-"

She edged her elbow into his ribs and reached for a bag of flower. "Dammit, measuring cups. Where does that woman keep her measuring cups-?"

"Fuck it, we'll guess." Before she could start rummaging through the myriad of kitchen cabinets, Tate snatched the flour from her hands.

"Careful, Tate, you'll-" His single tear of the bag turned into a gash, turned into a gaping hole, and white powder spread onto every surface like an albino dust storm. Tate's clothes were suddenly several shades lighter, and Violet could feel flour sprinkling the tops of her shoes.

"The maid is going to kill be." Tate said matter-of-factly.

Something about this statement struck Violet directly in the funny bone, and an irrepressible smile began to spread across her face.

"Oh, lay off." Tate replied, trying to hide his loss of pride.

"I guess this works," She said, tilting the bowl. A portion of the flour had made it inside, through some miracle of a feat.

The rest of this ensued in a similar manner. By the end, a mix of flours, eggs, milk, and sugar with a dash of who-knows-what-else was congealing into a yellow mess on the countertop on their clothes. Violet spooned batter into a metal tray.

"We should be on a cooking show," She suggested, wincing at the lumpy, watery mixture. "Violet and Tate in 'How not to Cook.'"

"Yeah, and then we drink wine and talk about self-mutilation."

Violet opened the oven, a wave of heat pulsing against her arms. "Should we say a prayer?"

"I don't think it'll help."

She agreed without a smattering of a doubt. What sort of horrific thing had they created? She strongly believed it wouldn't resemble a cupcake.

Tate drew his foot through the coating of flour on the floor, leaving a tennis-shoe treaded curve of visible wood. "We should clean this up-"

Violet felt a sudden flight of mischief. They had plenty of time to kill…Taking the spoon in her hand, she quickly and teasingly pressed it against the end of his nose, smearing it with the yellow batter.

"What the-" He immediately rubbed his sleeve across his nose, only succeeding in layering his face with more flour. His expression, a mixture of confusion and irritation, made Violet laugh. It was something that had been unfamiliar to her for several months. The sound was strange in her ears, but welcome, lie greeting an old friend of years long faded.

"I'm going to get you for that," Tate said threateningly, the corner of his mouth playing into a smirk.

"No way!" Violet darted away, fleeing around the safety of the center island. They circled back and forth for a moment as Violet looked for her escape. Tate's eyes were determined, lit with an animalistic look like the eyes of a hungry wolf. She finally made a break for the central hallway, skirting around his reach. The banister of the staircase was mere inches away from her fingertips when his hand closed around her wrist. She turned, off-balance, he crashed into her and the ceiling was wheeling overhead-

"Caught you." Tate said with a victorious smile.

She made no move to get away from him, pressing her fingers in-between his. His free hand traced her side, sliding into the curve of her hip. Violet was taken aback by the sheer normalcy of this moment. They weren't sharing hate stories or showing off self-inflicted scars, lurking around in the secrecy of the basement. She actually felt like a teenage- a real _teenager_, not an unhappy specter. It was almost easy to forget the web of lies her father had weaved, about her mother's eroding sense of motherhood, that she lived in a house that held more blood in its walls than a hospital- _his lips were so warm-_

"Ahem."

An older voice made itself known. Panic fluttered in Violet's chest- could her parents be home already, silently through the back door? Meeting with Tate was hard enough already-

But when she pulled away from him, it was only the maid, her hands folded behind her.

"Forgive me for interrupting," She said quickly. "But I believe I deserve some help. I'd like to have this mess cleaned up before Mr. and Mrs. Harmon come home."

Tate was already rising, smile vanishing into a stormy expression of rage.

"She's right, Tate," Violet said, taking his hand. He was tense and unreceptive, still glaring fiercely at Moira.

"Come on," Violet insisted, pulling him towards the kitchen. The moment had dissipated into thin air, lost.

The kitchen was beginning to fill with the warm scent of baking, giving Violet hope- maybe they would turn out alright, after all. Tate continued to turn a cold shoulder to Moira, as the maid began to mop up the floor. The teenagers were directed to wash the filthy cooking ware spread across the counters. Violet tried to soften the mood by leaning her head against Tate's shoulder, and his frustration dropped a few degrees.

The shrill alarm of the oven timer began to scream. Violet pulled an oven mitt over her soapy hands and opened the oven door, squinting cautiously at the contents.

"They don't look too bad," Tate muttered, glancing over the misshapen forms. "At least they smell edible."

Violet placed the tray on the counter and crossed her arms. They wouldn't win any cooking awards, but for a first time attempt, the homely little uneven pocket cakes were acceptable.

"I like them." She said finally. "It's all on the magic of the apron, baby."

Tate muttered a comment about lighting the apron on fire. "What's next?"

"Wait for them to cool and then we frost them-"

"Mr. and Mrs. Harmon just pulled into the driveway," Moira said suddenly, looking at the two with one eyebrow raised- the look said '_move your asses.'_

Tate cursed under his breath and wheeled for the back door, and Violet followed suit. She heard the car door slam as they scrambled down the back steps, quickly pressing her back to the wall. Tate stood close, glancing around the corner of the house cautiously.

"I'll save some for you," Violet whispered quickly. His hands suddenly seized the sides of her head- a slight sound of surprise escaped her throat- as he planted a swift and fierce kiss against her forehead.

The front door creaked open, then slammed shut again, the soft voice of her parents disappearing into the house.

"I'll come back later, I promise," Tate murmured, almost in a hiss. "Now, hurry, before they notice."

She tried to glance over her shoulder as she hurried back into the house, to see if he was watching as she left- but Tate was gone.

Violet stepped back into the kitchen a millisecond before Ben and Vivian Harmon stepped inside.

"What is this?" Vivian asked with a gasp, looking at the ugly cupcakes with an expression of awe. "Violet, did you do this?"

"Um…well…yeah. In fact, it was Moira's idea. I just helped out a little- she's a much better cook than I am." Violet explained flawlessly.

Moira allowed herself a millimeter of a smile from behind the couple's back.

"It's lovely. I'll frost them with you, if you want-" Vivian began to offer.

"No, that's okay. I'd like to finish the job." Violet interjected quickly. Vivian Harmon would not touch their handiwork- it would taint it, damage the memory.

Tate's promised return felt a century away.


	4. Chapter 3

"The lunatic is in my head  
>You raise the blade, you make the change<br>You re-arrange me 'till I'm sane  
>You lock the door<br>And throw away the key  
>There's someone in my head but it's not me."<p>

-Pink Floyd's "Brain Damage"

"Don't you prefer being miserable? Sometimes…it just feels like home." -James "Munky" Shaffer

How often do you think about suicide?

Far too often had he fantasied about such an end. Grinding a blade just a millimeter too deep, vessels swelling to meet it—but he was afraid.

Suicide seemed like the ultimate act of cowardice. You were too good for the weight of the world every man, woman, and child bore. _You_ were too good to take the suffering. _You _couldn't suck it up and keep the gun in the sock drawer and not in your mouth, like everyone else.

_ Or keep it under your sheets when those little red lights bore into your chest-_

He faintly remembered a day in the back of a classroom. Bars of sunlight filtered through the windows, casting parallel bands of warmth across his arms.

"The Wood of the Suicides."

The teacher paced the front of the classroom as an image projected onto the chalkboard- human forms twisted into stiff shapes, faces contorted into agonized screams. Laughing, winged creatures perched on their boughs, cheerfully snapping away twig after twig, the raw flesh of the tree pulsing with human blood.

He slowly pulled back his little finger, wondering how far it would give until it snapped like one of those human branches.

"Dante had little tolerance for the suicidal. It was his belief that by committing suicide, you were cheating the life God had granted you- and all of the hardships that came with it. As punishment, those who committed suicide were damned to undergo extended suffering for eternity, as the same trees many hung themselves upon-"

_That's what's waiting for you!_

He was afraid. Tate was completely convinced that something terrible was waiting at the end. He would not find that kind place, where the people he murdered in his dreams could go. If he could postpone an eternity in that place, then it was worth fighting through his corrupted life. At least he could see it, be used to its tortures.

And there was Violet. Violet made those thoughts go away. She was a constant beacon of light in the fear and doubt and anger. When she was with him, he felt a sense of purpose. She wasn't another shrink turning a deaf ear to his bitching. Insert textbook response here, prescribe another pill, see you next week.

Most enjoyable, she was easy to frighten. It had begun that way, from the moment they had met- a constant air of caution from Violet. A strange satisfaction churned in his stomach whenever he caught her by surprise, or recounted a foul story about the house, when he could almost smell the fear on her. As he would almost smell it on her now, the sound of the waves and the blood rushing in his ears—

Why couldn't the beach come back? Violet had grown so cold to him, so numb. The air about her was unmoving whenever he drew near, and he was terrified to as what thoughts had consumed her. Every destructive word waited expectantly at her lips- how easily she could destroy him with a single statement, a single expression of her decision to be rid of him. His place as a shadow in her footsteps had been reaffirmed- she was shying away from his protection, forgetting the barrier he had become in the place of Benjamin Harmon, disregarding the darkness he had called upon to exterminate every source of her suffering. Violet was slipping out of his fingers as quickly as the bloodied images from his dreams, abhorred dark thoughts creeping across the back of his mind.

She had been so close at the beach, and he had foolishly extinguished the opportunity to be permanently sealed to her, body and soul.

These proceedings could make a psychiatrist shit his pants. Teenagers, each valueless in their own minds, slinging powerful emotions at each other like children lobbing eggs, ignoring how they threatened to shatter and consume both in a black hole of self destruction. This courtship had begun to perfectly. Like the modern day Romeo and Juliet, secretly romancing behind the strict parents. And he liked the thought of the story's end, of Romeo and Juliet permanently consigning themselves to the world beyond, together.

But Tate based this thought without any true knowledge of Shakespeare's tale- of its message about the foolishness of immature love, even jesting at the couple's moronic devotion.

"Do you believe in God?"

It was funny how a situation could easily change the weight of this simple question. Strong, certain answers were easy to make when you only had your social image to worry about; when you were trying to shock your over-religious grandparents or stir a heated debate between your classmates. But this simple question could become immensely more complicated when your situation change- say, when the cold barely of a shotgun was kneading into your temple, or when you could feel the life of your one reason for existing draining away in your arms.

"_Don't you die on me, Violet!"_

Everything came into perspective that way. You started wondering how you had the audacity to answer this question so strongly, yes or no, and how your answer to this question could shape how the rest of your time on earth would be- including ending it within the next few seconds. And the worst part was knowing that somewhere, sitting on his exalted pedestal, He probably didn't give a damn how you answered. He already knew what you would say, it was already prewritten in some gold-leafed textbook and you could only hope that you would pick the right answer.

The fragile bubble of happiness he had constructed had finally crumbled, as Violet slowly came back to him underneath the freezing blast of the showerhead.

'_Satan is real.' It was scrawled into the dirt, underneath the desert sun, if only it could answer the most complex question known to mortal man, "Do you believe in God?"_

"Are you going to tell your parents?"

Of course she wasn't going to tell her parents. Had she told her parents about the cutting, about how she was dating her father's psych patient behind his back?

You don't need to tell your parents, Vi, because I'm never going to let you try to hurt yourself again, I'm going to take care of you because your self-absorbed parents can't.

What a funny coincidence that her suicide attempt had made her accept him again-

"_You're doing it wrong. If you're trying to kill yourself-"threaten to fire on a full force of armed officers with laser sights trained on your heart!-_

He wanted to ask her why she had done it, why he was suddenly so inadequate in her eyes. But that was the same disgusting question the media always pushed on criminals. 'Why did you do it?' Shoving microphones in their faces, screaming that same question, always needing that last statement, that dramatic line to toss in a blender and create tabloid vomit. They probably still asked it as felons lay on their beathbeds, slowly fading away as government sanctioned chemicals ended their heartbeats- like enthanizing the neighbor's dog because it had chewed your toddler's lips off because the little shit wouldn't stop screaming at it.

Violet's breath was warm, even, on the back of his neck as she began to drift off, this time without a belly full of pills to bring her a little closer to God.

'Why did you do it?'

I love you.

**Author's Note**

Sorry I haven't posted anything in a while. I've been NaNoWriMo-ing like mad.


	5. HIATUS ANNOUCEMENT!

Brief hiatus announcement

Just a few words from the author! I have a few ideas for following chapters of Carcinogen, but I'm in a writer's block of sorts.

I will, however, be continuing an original series on my fiction press: .com/u/801720/

I have to have some ideas flowing soon- in the meantime, I can't wait for new developments in AHS!


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